In Varietate Puritas: What is Sacred?
by White Eyebrow
Summary: After Voldemort's downfall, ministries around the world have put forth a law requiring all children with relatives involved in any capacity with the Dark Arts to be removed from their parents for the world's—and their own—safety. After all, they can't allow evil to conquer the world again... Chapter 3 in collaboration with whitetiger91 & secretfanficlover for The Houses Competition


_House/team: Gryffindor_

_Class subject: Potions_

_Story category: Bonus (Multi-chapter Collaborative Bonus)_

_Chapter: 3/3_

_Prompt: [Creature] Dementor_

_A/N: I am honoured to have collaborated with the equally lovely and talented **whitetiger91** and **secretfanficlover** in this effort; go to their profiles and read parts 1 and 2 respectively. I would also like to give a special shoutout to my fellow teammates for an exemplary showing in this competition._

* * *

The Albus Dumbledore Center for Wayward Youths  
(formerly Welsh Campsite No. 1234 000987)

Marietta regarded the condemned slum of a building as she waited by the threshold fortified by tall bricked ramparts. It was deathly quiet, which made the otherwise gentle afternoon breeze sound like an eerie howl to her ears, but it was soon supplanted by the creaking of the rusted metal doors.

The guard on the other side greeted her, and she entered the grounds. Past the threshold of the Confundus Charm, the slum was revealed to be a thriving complex of modern buildings surrounded by a lush, manicured lawn and buffered by a row of majestic English elm trees.

She followed the guard along the periphery, demarcated by a flimsy rabbit fence when a sudden chill caused her to wrap her cardigan tighter around her body.

_Taaasty…_

The uninvited foreign voice echoed in her head and prompted her to look up and to the left. She gasped when she saw a Dementor floating silently above.

_Waaarm…_

"Don't worry about them," the guard said, reassuring her. "There's a magical barrier that keeps them corralled… like a moat."

This did little to ease her apprehension, but she resumed walking, albeit warily as more Dementors converged upon them, attracted to her fear.

_Taaasty… Waaarm… Taaasty… Waaarm…_

Her escort had since made it to the gate at the secondary fence. "This way, Mrs McLaggen; it's best not to linger."

She obeyed, shaking off the _anti-joy_ that had infected her, and they traversed the open quad to enter the main building.

Her dainty footfalls echoed in the sterile lobby whose presentation mirrored the perfectly maintained lawn outside. She paused when a young boy approached; he wore a white robe of the same style as her former ward, John.

He presented her with an equally white rose. "Welcome, ma'am."

Marietta smiled. "Thank you." She knelt to receive the proffered flower. "Aren't you adorable… What's your name?"

"Toby, ma'am."

"Hello, Toby. I'm Marietta McLaggen." She smelled the rose. "Do you have a family name?"

"I haven't been assigned one yet, but I look forward to being the first of my line, ma'am."

Marietta furrowed her brow thoughtfully at the boy's words, but didn't have time to ponder them as her escort interjected.

"Toby, mind your robe."

The boy looked to where the guard pointed, a smudge of dirt on the hem of his robe. "Sorry, sir, I'll wash it straight away."

"Good lad." He placed a reassuring hand on the youth's shoulder. "That's why we have each other, to help us remember."

"Yes, sir." He left in haste, bunching his robe so as to hide the smudge within its folds.

Marietta was escorted to the headmistress' office where she awaited her new boss' arrival. She took the opportunity to casually walk a circuit around the spacious room, passing a picture of Albus Dumbledore hung next to a large bookcase built into the wall. Many of the tomes arranged thereon she did not recognise: _Brave New World, 1984, Follow the Rabbit-Proof Fence…_ She paused on the patinated leather book set apart in a pride of place on its very own shelf.

"_In Varietate Puritas._ You must be Mrs McLaggen."

Marietta flinched and regarded the familiar entrant: an older woman with silver hair dressed in the Ministry's gaudy purple robes. "Yes ma'am." She straightened. "And you are Headmistress Jenkins; I read about you in history class when I was a student." She forgot herself and blushed. "Er, yes, _In Varietate Puritas_. Sorry, I took the liberty of admiring your collection."

Headmistress Eugenia Jenkins approached, and the two women shook hands. "They're all just relics..." She noticed Marietta's free hand as it continued to linger on the book titled _The Pure-Blood Directory._ "That's an original printing… Have you ever read it?"

"No, ma'am." The strawberry-blonde nervously retracted her hand. "I've never had a motivation to do so on account of my pedigree."

"_Pedigree..."_ The old woman stifled a laugh upon hearing the word. "You shouldn't let that discourage you; did you know that the _Pure-Blood Directory_ introduced us to the notion of the Sacred Twenty-Eight?"

Marietta shook her head in answer.

"Understandable. It's one of those details that's easy to miss," she said. "History is full of such details, seemingly innocuous on the surface, but it is the preponderance of such that serve to inform those historical events that define us as a society."

Marietta raised an eyebrow. "Are you a historian?"

"At my age, I'm more of a witness." Madam Jenkins betrayed herself with a knowing smile, but having dispensed with the niceties she decided to get to the point. "I've read your file at the Minister's behest, and to be blunt, I wasn't surprised that you failed to rehabilitate your ward. He is too old to be deradicalised."

"Er, why was I promoted, then?"

"It was your compassion that moved me. It is a compassion that is sorely needed here."

"I do want to help in any way I can, Headmistress."

"I'm glad to hear that, child."

"But, you should know that I don't have experience as a correctional officer."

Madam Jenkins pursed her lips curiously as she eyed the young woman. "I read in your file that you attempted to discipline your ward."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did it work?"

"No, ma'am."

"The rod rarely does… I trust you've seen the Dementors we have deployed beyond the fences?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Madam Jenkins' countenance changed suddenly; she raised an eyebrow. "Do you disapprove?"

The young woman shied under the scrutiny. "I... don't know."

"They're foul, soulless creatures. We need them to disincentivise escape attempts, just as the guards are needed to maintain structure—something sorely lacking in this stolen generation. Unfortunately, this all creates an adversarial dynamic that is antithetical to proper inculturation… That's where _you_ come in, dearie."

"I'm not sure I follow, ma'am."

"Physical punishment can correct improper behaviour, but not improper thinking," she clarified. "A Unit Manager such as yourself will act as a liaison between the staff and these troubled youths."

Marietta's eyes widened. "Like an advocate?"

She nodded. "Having a voice puts part of the onus on _them_. Unlike their parents, we offer them a choice."

"A choice...? What's to choose between tolerance and intolerance?"

"It's not that simple, child—it never was." With that she thoughtfully took the young woman by the arm and led her to the threshold, saying, "Your ward John... would you like to see him?"

"Yes, ma'am."

They left the office, casually strolling through the empty hallways as classes were in session. Marietta was once again impressed by how clean and orderly things were.

"How is John?" Marietta asked.

"He's fine; we had to set him apart from the others. He was... difficult."

She snorted. "I feel bad, not being able to help him."

"As we all should," Madam Jenkins said plainly.

Two young girls crossed their path, giggling with brooms in hand as they swept the floor, their white robes hiked up to their knees. When they saw the adults, they quieted and curtsied in acknowledgement before returning to their chores.

Marietta's smile lingered. "Sometimes I wonder how things got so bad with these children."

"You said it yourself: _pedigree._ You were more right than you know about the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families."

"How so, ma'am?"

"Well, everything hinges on the word 'sacred' doesn't it?" she answered. "To declare one's pedigree as sacred implies that you are set apart from others. However, at which point does it cease being a blessing and becomes a curse?"

They entered the North wing, and passed an open area leading to a pavilion were two young boys around John's age were washing their clothes. A string of freshly-rinsed white robes, pinned on a clothesline, flapped in the breeze.

"Being 'set apart' doesn't appear to have affected these children; they seem clean, healthy, and happy," Marietta said.

"Well, to be fair, these are the children who are still malleable, whose self-image is not yet hardened by toxic ideologies. Verily, we are fortunate to live under a kinder, gentler Ministry of Magic. Although, that doesn't mean we don't still have a long way to go."

Marietta pursed her lips; the absence of something had just occurred to her. "I notice that you don't employ house-elves."

"Here at the Albus Dumbledore Center, we encourage self-reliance, for lazy bodies leads to lazy minds, which again makes one vulnerable to disease of thought."

"Yet you make them clean and maintain this facility in the same robes that you insist be kept in pristine condition."

"Correct."

"How are they supposed to succeed, then?"

The old woman grinned. "Indeed. It is a defeatist exercise, just like their supremacist ideology."

"But, I thought the robes represent a fresh start?"

"That is also correct. And in order to have a fresh start, you have to understand where you came from lest you fall into old habits. Few rarely change their behaviour unless they're made to understand_ why."_

"I must admit that I'm having a hard time sussing out the 'why' myself, Headmistress."

"It's simple; children learn best by doing," she replied. "In order to keep the robes so pure—so blemishless—you must constantly scrub them to the exclusion of all other concerns. Is it no wonder, then, that such efforts beget an apprehension to judge others by the purity of _their_ robes."

"So, what happens when you encounter a stain that you cannot simply scrub away?"

"That's precisely the point. Before long, they come to know that it is an impossible standard to strive for—not to mention a dull one… Can you imagine lacking a diversity of style in your wardrobe?"

Marietta smiled broadly. "I think I'm starting to understand, Headmistress."

They arrived at the end of the hall. The thick wooden door magically swung open as Madam Jenkins approached, and the two women entered.

This part of the building was darker as there weren't as many windows. They entered a viewing room where three other staff members were seated in front of a two-way mirror. The mood was considerably more sombre. The three men, likewise dressed in purple robes, regarded the entrants, and rose as the women took their seats in the front row.

Marietta settled in her chair. "So, where's John?"

"He's already here," Madam Jenkins replied.

As on cue, the lights dimmed, and the adjacent room was made visible on the other side of the two-way mirror.

Marietta instinctively gripped the arm-handles when she saw John strapped onto a trolley. Her eyes narrowed when she saw his head look up toward the ceiling. Daylight flooded the room as the trapdoor above opened.

The boy screamed when a dark shadowy figure made its ingress and descended upon him. The glass fogged in the chilled air.

Marietta sprung to her feet. "What the bloody hell?"

"Calm yourself, Mrs McLaggen." Madam Jenkins' tone remained measured.

"I demand to know what is going on!"

"He's an incorrigible," the headmistress maintained. "You've witnessed his behaviour first hand."

"Yes, but he's done nothing to deserve this!"

"It's the price of criminal non-conformity, I'm afraid."

"_Criminal non-conformity?_" Marietta's eyes narrowed. "He's eight!"

The Dementor leaned over John, obscuring the top half of the child's body. Only his little legs were visible, kicking wildly in defiance of whatever it was the Dementor was doing to him.

"MUMMY!"

Something within her—a maternal instinct—claimed Marietta, and she ran out of viewing room. Out in the hallway, she found the door leading to the adjacent room and confronted the guard.

"Open that door!"

He calmly nodded in the direction of the light installed above the threshold. "Not while the light is red—"

"Now!"

"It's not safe, ma'am."

She approached and pointed her finger brusquely into the guard's chest. "My name is Marietta McLaggen; I'm the new Unit Director for this division, and I _order_ you to OPEN-THAT-BLOODY-DOOR!"

He was not impressed. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

She shoved the guard aside and stood on the tips of her toes to look through the small pane in the door; she saw John's little feet twitching feebly.

She brandished her wand. _"ALOHOMORA!_"

The door remained locked.

She stepped back, extending herself into a proper offensive stance, her wand shaking. _"ALOHOMORA MAXIMA!"_

Her spell failed. She looked through the door's pane, screaming at the sight of John's still feet and futilely banged on the door with her fists.

The light above the threshold turned green, and the lock magically disengaged. Marietta rushed in, but it was too late. Shivering, she hugged her chest and regarded the trapdoor in the ceiling that was now the Dementor's egress; it started to close, taking with it the creature's lingering psychic impression that echoed in her head.

_Taaasty…._

Marietta glared toward the two-way mirror, though she could not see the spectators on the other side. She swallowed her pain, as if it were poison hemlock, and regained her composure before returning to the viewing room. Everyone else had cleared out except for Madam Jenkins, who awaited her return patiently, seated, staring blankly at the fogged glass.

Marietta stilled her quivering chin as she calmly closed the door behind her. "The Dementors… you told me they were only used as a deterrent."

The old woman turned to her. "I never said that."

Marietta clenched her teeth; everything she wanted to ask distilled into one simple word. _"Why…?"_

"Because I wanted you to understand what is at stake for these children. This problem will not be solved by the weak willed."

"So, your solution is to set Dementors upon them?"

"Yes," she answered matter-of-factly. "But, only those who are at the age of understanding and fail to assimilate."

Marietta blinked. "How can you be so—"

"_Evil...?_ Is that the word you're searching for, dearie? Well, before you stew in your righteous indignation, I challenge you to consider just how much a child's life is really worth." She rose, and her chair slid noisily on the tiled floor. "Are they worth all the lives of those lost under Grindelwald? How about under Voldermort? How many of _your_ family fell at the wand of his Death Eaters—most of whom are forebears of these children?" She folded her arms confidently. "Do you detect a theme yet?"

"For Merlin's sake, it's not a maths equation!"

The old woman sighed and took a different tack. "Cancer… do you _set it apart _and cut it out of the organism, or do you let the _accursed_ affliction spread and proliferate because you feel sorry for it?"

"They're not cancer cells, either!"

"No, they're worse; they're like those same innocuous details that I mentioned before—forgotten to history, yet when compounded, lead to disaster."

Marietta started to object, but conflicted, she reversed herself, silent.

"Nothing is sacred, child. When _I_ was Minister of Magic, I saw this same nonsense come to fruition in the pure-blood riots—with all those dead Squibs in the aftermath… And then came Voldemort—" She shook her head sternly "—I will _not_ fail like that again!"

"No," Marietta scoffed as she wiped the wetness on her cheek with her cardigan sleeve. "You'll just fail differently."

Madam Jenkins snorted. "Do you think I lack empathy? Rest assured, if not us, then someone else will do this—someone far less empathetic than we—"

"Empathy is not sympathy!"

The older woman smiled. "Don't you see? You're perfect." She paused long enough to take in a deep, thoughtful breath. "You said you wanted to help… won't you help us to be on the right side of history? You don't have to like it, but think of our posterity."

The emotion drained from Marietta's face as she kept her eyes averted. She knew what her answer had to be. "His robe… I should wash it for his interment, Madam Jenkins."

At the headmistress' approving nod, Marietta returned to the body and gently removed his robe, made dirty in the youth's futile struggle against the Dementor. Her lip trembled when she uncovered the bruises on his forearms, suffered at her hands. She laid his arms across his chest, and brushed away the locks of his hair that covered his pale, angelic face, lending to the illusion that he was merely asleep.

"You're a good boy, Pollux." She didn't bother to wipe the tears that ran down her cheek.

Robe in hand, she retired to the staff lavatory and locked the door. She held the raiment up to the light, examining it in the mirror, when she regarded her own reflection and frowned. A hint of something odd spurred her into pushing her strawberry-blonde fringe aside. The aged scar on her forehead was newly manifest, the word 'SNEAK' clearly spelt.

Although that area of skin felt smooth to the touch, the reflection of the perceived pimpled parlance was just as pronounced as it was the first day it had plagued Marietta all those years ago.

For lack of a proper flannel, she applied soap to a corner of the inside of John's robe and wetted it in the sink. She wrung out the excess and tried to clean off her psychosomatic affliction to no avail. She wet the area again and proceeded to scrub it ever more vigorously, leveraging her nails in a vain attempt to scrape the pustules off.

By the time she abandoned the effort, the section of robe had become red.

—oOo—

_In working to help these children in need—to push an agenda—a Ministry-approved creed—is it evil to fail, or evil to succeed?_

—oOo—

In the weeks that followed, Marietta would eventually warm up to her new position as Unit Manager. The plush toy dragon she kept atop her desk, next to the picture of her husband, Cormac, served as a steady reminder not to allow herself to become too attached to her charges.

She often found herself staring out of her office window; the visual of the Dementors wisping about the edge of the grounds was oddly soothing to her. Sometimes she even thought to be able to 'hear' them.

_Taaasty… Waaarm… Taaasty… Waaarm…  
__Taaasty… Waaarm… Taaasty… Waaarm…  
__Taaasty… Waaarm… Taaasty… Waaarm…  
__Taaasty… Waaarm… Taaasty… Waaarm…_


End file.
